Category Archives: Portugal

For years I’ve dreamt of becoming a pro wrestling superstar, smashing chumps over the head with chairs and flexing my glistening muscles for my adoring fans. But I’m lazy and usually hungover, so I’ve never bothered to make my dream a reality. Fate, however, decided that hammering big, sweaty blokes in the ring pummeling idiots in the squared circle was my calling and so, by pure chance, I ended up as a wrestling legend. This is the epic story of how I became the Heavyweight Champion of Portugal.

I spotted a poster for Centro Treinos Wrestling taped to a pole while I was drinking in downtown Lisbon, and decided it’d be a laugh to rock up and see the show. I followed the directions on the poster, keeping an eye out for a grand arena fitting such a renowned organisation, but when I arrived at Maria Pia Sport Clube it was the size of a Polish shithouse. Loud gangasta rap music was playing inside, so I finished my beer and raced in.

The ring was set up in the middle of a run-down outdoor basketball court, with a dozen or so curious onlookers scattered around. When I swaggered in to take my seat, the fans rose to their feet and started cheering me, so I hammed it up and flexed my guns. With my chiseled physique they obviously thought I was one of the wrestlers, so I played along and slapped high-fives and took selfies with my new fans, until I felt a spirited tap on my shoulder.

I turned around to see a huge, scary-looking guy snarling at me. He had a shiny gold belt wrapped around his waist, fancy tights on his bottom, and was obviously furious that I was stealing his spotlight.

“Yo gringo,” he spat. “Why don’t you sit down before the Champ makes you sit down?”

When I didn’t do as I was told, the brute pushed me to the ground, leading to a round of furious boos from the audience. I was shocked, hurt, and angry, but knew there was no point in fighting back against such a monster. I grabbed a cheap cup of beer, sat back and dried my tears as the champ introduced himself as ‘Pai Grande’ Leo Rossi.

The first couple of matches weren’t too bad, and I actually had a great time sitting out in the sun and watching people fight. The first contest had some creepy masked dude named Symbiote punching on with a handsome, long-haired fella who the two ladies in the crowd (both morbidly obese and lacking in teeth) were going gaga for. After that was some weird intergender match where another masked duded named Red Eagle kicked the shit out of some sheila called Claudia Bradstone. It ended when Symbiote raced in to beat the crap out of them, setting up a tag team main event classic for the ages: Symbiote and Rossi vs Eagle and Bradstone!

Then some cunts came out and waved their Star Wars lightsabres around for 45 minutes. Their toys must’ve had flat batteries, because they didn’t light up and they had to make the noises with their mouths. I was hoping Darth Vader would rock up and behead hem, but ti wasn’t to be. They didn’t seem to know what they were doing and it had nothing to do with wrestling, so I drank heavily and ended up furiously banging on the club’s only toilet door. After what seemed like an eternity, it flung open and an obviously annoyed Rossi stumbled out, bringing a putrid stench with him.

“I thought I told you to sit down and shut up, amigo,” he snarled, before pushing me into the toilet and slamming the door, trapping me in there with the crawling smell of his diarrhea.

I finally busted out during a match between some big-titted stunna and a dweeb called Nelson, and when that was done Rossi and Symbiote sauntered back out. The bullies were talking shit and acting like tools, and when Rossi saw me he almost lost it. They had a hard-hitting encounter with their opponents that spilled out onto the basketball court, and when Rossi dragged his victim near me, he told me I was next. I wasn’t going to hang around and wait for that, so I grabbed my folding chair and brained the bastard with it.

Rossi was furious! With blood pouring down his head, he chucked me into the ring and screamed that he’d put his championship on the line against me. The crowd roared as I took him down with a brutal DDT, but he popped up and hit me with a wicked senton bomb. I gave him a blistering Samoan drop, but Rossi hit back with a sickening sidewalk slam. I wish I had photos of this, but as you can understand, I was a bit busy. After half an hour of blood and beatings, I chokeslammed him onto a pile of thumbtacks and then made him tap out with a Boston crab. The referee handed me the belt and I was chaired into the streets of Lisbon by my supporters while Rossi wept in the gutter. Finally, I had fulfilled my destiny.

I lost the belt in an armwrestle with a vagrant later that night, but I had become the most feared wrestler on the planet. Every man in Portugal wanted to shake my hand, every woman in Portugal wanted to shake my penis with her mouth, so I could no longer stay in Lisbon. I fled to the airport and hopped on the first place to my nearest safe house… a little shack in the south of Brazil, where I knew someone would be waiting to look after me…

Lisbon doesn’t have a spectacular harbour like Sydney, Hong Kong or Woy Woy, but it is on the water, and has a few things to offer those who are after a stroll along the agua. The 25 de Abril bridge looks a bit like that one in San Francisco, but hopefully not as many people commit suicide by jumping off it. Maybe it’s because the bridge is next to Santuário de Cristo Rei, a statue of Jesus that looks just like the one in Rio. I like to think the big fella has a quiet word with anyone feeling blue enough to end it all.

A short powerwalk along the Tagus River reveals the enormous Padrão dos Descobrimentos, a 52-metre-high monument to Portugal’s history of exploration. It was finished in 1960 and boasts 33 statues of famous Portuguese explorers, all of whom have funny names. It costs five Euros to climb to the top, but I didn’t because I got distracted by a chick with big tits and forgot to.

The best thing to see along the waterfront is the 500-year-old Belém Tower, which was originally built defend the city before being converted into a place to imprison homosexuals. Once it became obvious that the homosexuals quite enjoyed being locked up in a dungeon with dozens of like-minded individuals, they were all drowned in the river and it was converted into a regular prison, with only a three percent drop in the amount of gay sex.

2. BOUND FOR GLORIA

Lisbon is really hilly and the Portuguese only have little legs, so they built a bunch of funicular railways to carry them home after loading up on bacalhau and vinho verde. The most famous of the three remaining funiculars is the Elevador da Glória, which was handily located just around the corner from my hostel (which was very handy for getting home after drinking my body weight in cheap supermarket beer).

Gloria was opened in 1885 and rolls a few hundred metres from Baixa up to Bairro Alto. It costs three Euros to head up or down, so it’s best to buy a transport day pass for six Euros and ride the bloody thing all day long. The best part is that when you get off at the top, you can dance around like you’re in the opening of Full House.

3. BLISTER IN THE SUNSET

There are few things more enjoyable than smashing ice-cold beers while watching a glorious sunset in an exotic city. Alright, maybe watching the Raiders beat Manly 50-0 in the grand final with an endless supply of free beer and meat pies at hand would top it, but you get the point. Lisbon is an ace place for watching the sun go down because it faces west over the ocean and has heaps of stunning lookouts.

Miradouro de Santa Catarina and Miradouro Santa Luzia are great spots, but the best I found was the snappily-titled Miradouro da Nossa Senhora do Monte. The name means ‘Our Lady of the Hill’, and it’s easily accessible by wandering through the Graca district’s labyrinthine alleyways until you either stumble upon it or die of starvation. Situated in the grounds of an ancient church, the view is tops, but the best thing is that there’s a bar serving nice big jugs of Sagres (and some overpriced food, so bring a bag of chips). By the time the sun finally disappears, you’ll be so smashed they’ll have to roll you back down the hill!

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Lagos is a disgraceful Nigerian city where the kids walk around with AK-47S, the prostitutes are overflowing with AIDS, and every second person is an internet scam artist (hi, Prince Bobongi). So rather than risking my life by going to that Lagos, I went to the Portuguese version, which turned out to be a particularly pleasant place to spend a week.

Lagos is one of the major destinations in the world famous Algarve region, and more than 5 million sunseekers from around the world descend upon its glorious beaches every year (alright, I made that number up because I couldn’t find any figures on Wikipedia). Sun, sand, surf and sandwiches are all available in this Portuguese paradise.

I stayed a bit out of town at the Ocean View Hostel, which I liked because it’s cheap, has a nice pool, and serves cold drinks. It’s also located close to Praiha Porto de Mos’s blue waters and the spectacular cliff walk that leads up from the sand. Unless you’ve got money for a helicopter or something (and I barely have money to wipe my arse) this is the best way to see the Algarve’s rugged coast.

The town centre is grouse if you’re the sort of person who likes to drink good food and eat good beer while watching stunning Euro ladies saunter past wearing next to nothing. If you’re the sort of person who prefers to slam your cock in a mouse trap or lip sync to Milli Vanilla in front of the bathroom mirror, you might want to try somewhere else. Lots of the bars are aimed at visiting Poms (and priced as such), but there’s a great party vibe pretty much every night of the week. I got so hammered on Sagres and cheap Portuguese boxed wine that I stripped down to my boxer shorts and got caught drink driving. I’m a bloody idiot.

Being a seaside resort town, there’s a pleasant waterfront area that looks out over about a billion dollars worth of yachts. About the closest I’ve been to riding a yacht was when I dry humped a yak while I was in India (he never accepted my Facebook friend request, by the way) but the waterfront is still a cool place to stroll along. There’s even a little stretch of sand called Praiha Batata, which means Potato Beach, and is the best name this side of Eggs and Bacon Bay.

Forte da Ponta da Bandeira was built in the late 1600s to protect the city from sea snakes, and it’s still in pretty good shape. There’s a museum inside that has all sorts of information on Portugal’s marine history, but that sounds boring so I didn’t check it out. Apparently it’s still used to imprison local sex pests, perverts and rapists, so I made sure to go easy on the nude selfies whilst in Lagos (that noise you hear is about 50 girls from Tinder calling, “Bullshit!”).

Being a touristy sort of place, there are shitloads of activities to do, but I didn’t bother with any of them because I was either too drunk or too hungover all the time. But here are some delightful photos of other idiots having fun in Lagos. Look how much fun they’re having!

The fella in that last foto is Dewey, a loudmouthed Yank who I had the extreme misfortune to share a room with. As well as masturbating regularly and enthusiastically, he jabbered non-stop about shit I couldn’t care less about. The only thing I remember him saying is, “It’s funny they call this place Lagos, because I have the lagos dick in town!” I hope he ended his trip in the rape fort.

My girlfriend is Brazilian, so whenever I do something stupid and she starts yelling at me, I don’t have a clue what she’s saying because I don’t speak Portuguese. It’s always “small penis” this and “useless fucking dickhead” that, which makes no sense to me because I don’t understand the language. So, in an effort to strengthen the relationship, I left the epic mountains of Switzerland and headed to the home of the Portuguese language and Portuguese fried chicken – Portugal!

My first stop was the port(uguese) city of Setúbal, which is about an hour south of Lisbon by bus. The actual city is a bit rough and working class, and smells like a fisherman’s finger, but the plentiful coffee shops, seafood restaurants and bars scattered along the cobblestone streets give it a somewhat bohemian feel. Try the choco frito, it’s grouse!

Scattered throughout the streets are dozens of really weird statues, from dolphins to fat ladies and explorers to stuff I can’t even begin to explain. There’s even a gigantic squid escaping certain death in a searing hot frying pan, which I found kind of terrifying. If I’d known they possessed such emotions, I wouldn’t have eaten a bunch of the pricks for dinner.

There are some nice old buildings, and it can be pleasant along the waterfront, but you wouldn’t travel around the world to see it. The nearby national park, however, is absolutely glorious and well worth the trip.

The Parque Natural da Arrábida is home to golden beaches, blue waters, and steep, rocky cliffs. It’s not far from town by bus – I didn’t even have time to finish my can of Super Bock before climbing off at Figueirinha Beach. ‘Figgy’ isn’t the place to stay, because it’s pretty crowded and there are kids kicking soccer balls everywhere, so either jump on the free park shuttle to get further into the park, or get up off your fat arse and wander along the beautiful coast.

There are a few zesty tracks to wander along, but it’s best to just pick one of the quiet beaches and spread out by the water for a day in the sun. I like going naked, as is nature’s way, and nobody had a problem with that – I even received a few high-fives and a kind warning that “your sausage will sizzle if you don’t turn it over” from a local pervert. Just to be clear, I declined his kind offer to rub sunscreen on my old fella.

Honestly, these beaches are some of the best in Europe and it’s a top part of the world, with eagles soaring along the ridges and fish diving through the cool water. There are a handful of ancient ruins scattered around, and on a good day it offers some of the best coastal paragliding on the planet. It feels a lot like the Greek islands, which makes sense considering where it’s located, but it’s cheaper and quieter. Even better, this is Europe so there are chicks with their big tits out everywhere!

After a few days in Setúbal, I felt like I’d picked up enough of the local lingo to impress my girlfriend with my Portuguese skills, so I gave her a call while watching the blazing sunset.

“Ola, bebezinho,” I said smugly, looking around to see if anyone mistook me for a local. “Posso comer sua enguia? Faz um chapéu.”

“Are you sure you’re in Portugal? Because it sounds like you’re talking shit,” she replied, obviously using a regional dialect I was unfamiliar with. “Honestly, you’re as bad with languages as you are in bed.”

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